Star Wars Naked
by Whiskey Meteor
Summary: Andrew reflects on losing Warren, and how he was finally able to let him go. AndrewXander, post season seven


Title: Star Wars Naked

Author: Whiskey Meteor

Rating: PG

Summary: Andrew reflects on losing Warren, and how he finally let go. Andrew/Xander, and reference to Andrew/Warren.

Disclaimer: You know the deal. I don't own 'em, and I aint makin' any money off 'em neither.

Notes: Andrew's POV, Post season 7. I apologize if Andrew's Klingon isn't totally accurate. The poem should translate to "you are in my heart and I am happy / your love makes me alive / you make me whole / you make me strong / you are my all." And thanks to Karen for the beta!

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Sometimes things break and you can't fix them. Not by yourself, at least. Sometimes things get mixed up and you need someone else's help before you can see them straight again. Death is supposed to be absolute. You're only supposed to have to lose someone once, but it doesn't always work out that way. Buffy died twice, but they brought her back. That's where it gets mixed up, I think. People hold on when someone they love dies. They find a way to keep the person they lost alive, even if they shouldn't. You're supposed to learn to live without them-- to love what you had and move on. But how do you move on when you're missing a piece? How are you supposed to fix a broken heart? 

Willow killed Warren. She took his skin right off. I guess it was what he deserved, but it's hard to imagine anyone really deserving that, you know? It's harder to imagine anyone coming back from that. But Warren came back. He was dead, and then he came back. Like a Jedi knight, 'cause only I could see him. It wasn't really him, though. It was the First, and I knew it. Warren was gone-- transporter malfunction gone --and you don't come back from that. 

But one night, there he was: come back from the heaven, or hell, or Sto-vo-kor, or wherever he'd been. And it didn't matter that it couldn't be-- that in my heart I knew it wasn't really him. When the First came knocking on my door, all Obi-Wan with the non-corporeality, I wanted so badly for it to be real that it was easy to pretend.

It looked like Warren and talked like Warren and knew everything that ever made Warren... Warren. There were little things that weren't right-- things that made the pretending harder. But there were things that made it easier, too. Like, he remembered one of the first poems I wrote for him. Recited it flawlessly. "SoH 'oH Daq wIj tIq 'ej jIH 'oH Quch / lIj parmaq chen jIH yIn / SoH chenmoH jIH Hoch / SoH chenmoH jIH HoS / SoH 'oH wIj Hoch". It made me remember when Warren was still alive, still solid, still real. Made me remember all the quiet, stolen moments we had when Jonathan wasn't watching. The first awkward kiss. The hasty casting off of clothes and inhibitions. The declarations of love and devotion. It had to be Warren reciting my poem. It just had to be. I almost had myself convinced that it was real. Like I told Jonathan when we went to jail: Warren was going to come back for us-- for me. He said he would. He promised he'd never leave me. Swore on Bobba Fett that when it was all over we'd be together. Willow killed him, but somehow, I told myself, somehow he'd found a way. It was Warren, after all. Warren: the first man-- first person --I ever loved. I would have done anything for him, I loved him so much.

I killed for him. Killed for the Warren that wasn't really Warren. Rationalized the act and felt nothing when I washed Jonathan's blood from my hands. Everyone's done stupid things for love, I guess. But what I did... stupid doesn't begin to describe. I killed my best friend. I used to wake up crying, screaming, when it finally sunk in. But now I'm used to dreaming of blood on my hands that won't wash off and a cold body crawling from an unmarked grave with rotting, green hands, pulling me back down with him. Back into the grave, into the earth, into Hell. You shouldn't be allowed to get used to dreams like that. They should always terrify you, make you feel bad and remind you what you did forever. I still feel bad, though. I don't need the dreams to remind me of what I did. I've apologized, screamed I'm sorry's to the silent sky time and time again. It never makes me feel any better. But I guess that's not really the point of an apology, is it?

Warren had been gone for a long time before I finally let him go. Let him step out of my heart to make room for someone else. I'd held on for so long that I think I didn't know how let go or live without him there. Luckily, I had help. 

It was after we'd kicked the First's ass and Sunnydale went down like the Death Star. For a long time we floundered, unsure of how to stop and rest. Like the Superfriends would have felt, I guess, if the Legion of Doom had suddenly up and retired. Like when Voyager finally got home. You've got your normal life back and it's all you ever wanted, but part of you can't help but think that things were easier before. When you had something to fight, something to focus on and keep the pain at bay. But you learn to live again. Slowly, we slipped into the real world, jobs and taxes and worrying about getting all our Christmas shopping done on time. And then, somewhere in the transition back to normal life, I fell in love. I fell in love and I was finally able to let Warren go. 

I don't know exactly how it happened. The falling in love part, that is. There was pizza and popcorn and old movies every Tuesday night, trying to keep the old gang together. But it was hard to get everyone together at the same time. We survivors were supposed to get lives, grow up, move on. But I hadn't mastered moving on yet. Neither, it turned out, had Xander. So when Tuesday night came around, it was mostly just me and him. Sad, lonely people find comfort in each other all the time. It's hard to watch your friends living happy lives and being in love when you have nothing. It's easier if the nothing you have includes a warm, willing body that can make you feel good, if only for a little while. That's how it started: looking for comfort on a lonely Tuesday night. A hug that held on a little too long, that didn't want to let go and melted into roaming hands and lips that tasted like cheese and pepperoni. Rearranging clothes and falling in an awkward pile on the couch. And then an awkward goodbye when it was all over and the silent understanding that it shouldn't have happened. That it wouldn't happen again. 

But it did. The next day he was waiting when I got off work, car idling, leaning over to call through the window. "Need a ride?" he asked. I got in, expecting an explanation of why I wouldn't be invited to movie night anymore. But there was no talking. Only a short drive to a dark street, and then hands, and lips, and skin on skin, and as much comfort as two people can find in the back seat of a car. It went on like that for months: us stealing away, meeting at every opportunity and finding comfort in each other's arms when no one else was looking. If one of us had a bad day, both of us would have a good night to make up for it. It wasn't perfect. But it was enough. Enough to keep us passably happy, comforted,and not so entirely alone. And then... things changed. Comfort and convenience gave way to something more. Something we had, I think, all along, but weren't ready to accept. Like Han and Leiah. You know they were always totally in love, they just didn't realize it right away. 

He said it on her birthday: "I love you". Another night in the car after work, rearranging enough clothes to play. Both of us needing to be together because she'd never really have another birthday and that was almost too much to bear. He kissed my neck softly, almost uncertainly, and whispered "I love you" in my ear. His eyes were pressed closed tightly to keep the tears from getting out, and he said "I love you". At first, I thought he wasn't talking to me. Like, that maybe he was thinking about Anya. I didn't really mind. I loved her too, in my own way. But he stopped when I was quiet and looked me right in the eye. "Andrew," he said, "I love you."

I cried. For the first time since before Sunnydale went kaboom. I cried like a baby, Xander's shirt balled in my hands and my face pressed wet against his chest. He gathered me up and held me on his lap. Stroked my back and kissed my head and told me he loved me again and again until I ran out of tears altogether. 

"I've never made anyone cry by telling them I loved them," he said, smiling. "Saved the world once... but I never made anyone cry." 

He didn't ask me why I was crying. I think he understood. I was letting go: saying goodbye. Weeping in sorrow for the man I loved who would never come back, and then in joy for man I loved who was there with me. That's the answer, I guess. How you move on when you're missing a piece. How you fix a broken heart. You have to let go of what you had so that you can hold on to what you have.

When my eyes were dry, he kissed me and said it again. And then he took me home and we made love, sweet and slow and shy. Blushing like we'd never touched each other before, and drawing it out, stalling for time in case we never got to touch each other again. But we did. Honest and in the open, holding hands and kissing in front of everyone. And they didn't freak out. They were happy: Giles with a small smile, cleaning his glasses; Faith with a big one, laughing and teasing in her friendly, relentless way until Robin made her stop; Buffy, confused over the phone, "You mean, you weren't together before?" I don't know exactly how it happened, the falling in love, that is. But it did. And I guess that's all that matters. I let Warren go, and now I have Xander to hold on to.

Xander fixes things that break. It's what he does. He has strong, sure hands and a mind that understands how shattered pieces can be fit together to form a whole again. He says I fix things too-- things that can't be mended with a hammer and nails. We're not always happy. But that's okay, because no one's always happy. Sometimes we sing and laugh and dance. Sometimes we fight. Sometimes we watch Star Wars naked. And sometimes at night we cry over everything that could break, and everything that's already broken. But in the morning the sun comes up and things are always a little clearer. We try to remember to let go of what was and focus on what is. We have each other now, and that makes things a little easier, because together we can fix almost anything that breaks.

The end. 


End file.
